It Was A Business Doing Pleasure
by rayychel infinity
Summary: " All  because at Blaine's throat a black leather collar is fastened, the oval silver pendant that's looped by a thick jump ring catching the light and sparkling like promises and longing."


**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Glee_, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title taken from the song of the same name by Four Letter Lie.  
>Warnings for this story are: Tame (cannot really stress this enough) puppyplay, a swearword or two thrown in somewhere in the jumble of half-awake words, pearl necklace. If you don't know what this is, Urban Dictionary is your BFFF (that's best fucking friend forever, man). Everyone's basically decided that Blaine is, in fact, a gigantic puppy, so I decided that yes, Kurt does as well. I don't even .. I don't know why I wrote this. I need to be working on <em>Silent Dreams<em>.

**xxxxXxxxx**

From the moment that Blaine walks through Kurt's door in a scooping purple-and-white ombre v-neck and too-tight black jeans it's like there's a different Kurt in the room. The soft-spoken though sharp-tongued boy is gone, replaced with a forceful boy truly teetering on the edge of a confident manhood, all because at Blaine's throat a black leather collar is fastened, the oval silver pendant that's looped by a thick jump ring catching the light and sparkling like promises and longing.

It could be the change of attire—sexy curve-hugging as opposed to the usual hipster tight with a little room for breathing—or it could be the sudden and abrupt change of atmosphere as he enters the room. The humidity, temperature, both seem to spike, the air swirling and convulsing with tension and an aroused curiosity at the pure newness of the situation.

It could be that Kurt has never seen Blaine look so sexy, so _effortlessly_ so that the only word that comes to mind is "ridiculous." How he's appreciating, for once, the way the sleeves of the v-neck hug his biceps, how the forearm tapers into this thin wrist and then flares back out to this decidedly rugged and masculine hand that's calloused from guitar and scarred from the various "father-son bonding" activities he's had to do over the years with his dad.

The jeans, they're a low-rise, sitting down so far on Blaine's defined hips that the hem of his shirt misses the button by a few centimeters, exposing taut, tanned skin and dark hair whenever Blaine moves or breathes. Kurt's throat is suddenly one of the vast desert regions in Nevada where _CSI_ is always finding dumped bodies and it doesn't appear that there's a rainstorm in sight any time soon.

Blaine's left arm swings by his side, dangles loose, and the other props his body against the doorframe. He looks like he's at the casting call for some new James Dean-esque "bad boy" character. Kurt suddenly has visions of leather and motorcycles, the smell of gasoline and cheap roadside diner food.

Mostly, though, despite all of this, it's because the moment that Blaine walks in, his hazel eyes determined and collar moving with every nervous swallow, he's said only one thing: "Woof."

He let his teeth linger on his lower lip far too long to be accidental. His hair is down and messy, curls catching the angles of his face and caressing the nape of his neck, falling across his forehead in tight spirals. He looks so entirely reminiscent of a Scottish terrier that Kurt could cry. How is something as simple, as _tame_ as this turning him on so much?

Blaine's eyes keep their huge, puppy quality as he stands still in the doorway; posture slightly slumped from nerves and weight resting too heavily on his right arm. Kurt struggles to take a normal breath of air. His eyes continuously dart from Blaine's throat to his lips then up to his eyes and he can't speak, can't do anything but stare until he sees absolutely nothing but Blaine and then shadowy black in his peripheral. Blaine's shifting nervously from foot to foot under the intensity of Kurt's gaze.

"Blaine," Kurt eventually says in a museum voice, the kind one usually reserves for admiring paintings in the Louvre or El Prado when it seems too sacrilegious to speak at normal volume, "Blaine, you are… You are _such_ a good boy."

If Blaine had a tail it'd be wagging.

If Kurt wasn't thinking with his entirely-too-interested dick he'd probably smack himself or at least take a moment to reflect on what just came out of his mouth. He'd probably capture Blaine's reaction, the parting of his lips in slow motion, the audible hitch in his otherwise-controlled breathing, and replay it a thousand times over; relishing in the knowledge that it's _him_ doing this. That something as simple as those six words could do _that_.

Kurt crosses the room and cradles Blaine's face in his hand, stroking and scratching behind Blaine's ear. Blaine makes a noise, something that can only be described as happy, and leans into Kurt's touch, licking gently at the inside of Kurt's thin wrist with the wide pad of his tongue.

A shudder works its way like a worm through Kurt's body and long after Blaine's retracted his tongue and taken to nosing at Kurt's hand to get him to continue scratching he still feels the warm, wet heat on his wrist, sparking and eating its way into his capillaries. Kurt pulls back and, ignoring Blaine's whimpers and jutting lower lip, points to the bed and says, "Sit."

Blaine obeys.

Kurt eyes him, from his crossed legs to his arms, palms flat on the bedspread, supporting his weight as he leans forward and cocks his head in anticipation. His shirt is pulled tight over his shoulders and gapes down as he angles forward a little more, exposing the dark shadows of his chest. A dark coil of arousal unfurls like a butterfly from a cocoon and engulfs Kurt in a thick cloud. That damn collar is still catching light and reflecting it in mesmerizing dashes and his shirt is so _open_ and waiting and how the hell has Kurt's life come to this?

"Strip, Blaine," Kurt says. "If you do it you'll get a treat."

It's ridiculous how much Kurt's cock is swelling inside his jeans, how much he _enjoys_ treating Blaine like the four-legged friend he never had. When Blaine's clothes drop to the floor with muted thuds Kurt sees as he stands there, waiting for Kurt's next order he's just as hard, maybe a little more. Kurt immediately addresses Blaine's silent plea and orders him on his hands and knees.

Blaine's eerily still; Kurt's used to his incessant movement and nonstop energy, his penchant for climbing on furniture and generally being loud and obnoxious and loveable. Now everything is subdued as he obeys Kurt's orders once again and dutifully lowers himself. Kurt tries not to moan aloud at the sight.

Blaine is the housetrained pet that every kid wanted but never got. The one who would fetch your newspaper from the dewy lawn every morning where the neighbor kid had misjudged the distance again and missed the driveway for the third time this week, little droplets of moisture clinging to the protective blue plastic as he carries it to you neatly in his jaws, proud like he's just completed the most important job ever, and maybe he has. When you unfold it there're no teeth marks, no little tears in the wood pulp. The entertainment section is a little worse for wear, discolored circles showing where water had gotten in and seeped through, but it happens.

You'd pat him on the head, say _Good boy_ and his tail would wag and his pink tongue would loll out of his mouth and he'd look up at you with adoration and love and an urge to protect and keep you happy for as long as he possibly could.

His hand inches down to his jeans on its own accord, palming his cock with enough pressure to be almost painful. The room is silent save for their combined breathing, the occasional grating squeak of metal springs as Blaine moves in what's probably a self-conscious way. Kurt's sounds too loud for his ears, too ragged and uncontrolled to actually be coming from him.

His sheds his clothes a little more slowly than Blaine, taking the time to rest them on the computer chair before climbing onto the bed and kneeling behind Blaine.

Kurt flattens his hand over Blaine's flank, presses his fingers in slightly and feels the skin dip under the pressure. He gently knees Blaine's legs further apart. They both groan softly when Kurt's cock brushes against the back of Blaine's thigh and Kurt imagines that, right now, words are bunching up at the back of Blaine's throat, dog piling in an effort to escape the prison of his mouth.

"I'm so proud of you," Kurt says softly, stroking tight spirals and spanning ovals into Blaine's lower back, following the dip just above his ass and continuing like waterfalls down his thigh whenever Blaine makes a noise of pleasure. "I'm so proud that you've been so quiet this whole time. I did say that you'd get a treat for being a good boy, right?"

Blaine rapidly nods, unconsciously angling his hips up and resting his chin on his crossed arms. Kurt's struck again at how _well_ Blaine falls into this role, how this is completely tame compared to other accounts that Kurt has stumbled upon during his late-night sex help browsing sessions. There's no dog tail plug, no mitts—stupid and unnecessary, in Kurt's opinion—no calling of "Master" and ordering of the dog to perform various sexual acts.

This was all about making Blaine happy, making them both happy in a way that Kurt never knew he needed. Something like this would never be their lifestyle. They're too young, so inexperienced at this point in their lives that they both still blush gratuitously whenever they've fully bared themselves to the other.

Blaine always flushes whenever Kurt licks kittenishly at his balls, like he's intimidated. Kurt will always flush whenever Blaine simultaneously executes his surprisingly lenient gag reflex and presses his thumb hard to Kurt's perineum. They're still getting to know each other as well as themselves.

Kurt licks his palm and slides it under Blaine's body, feeling the heat radiate like sun off of asphalt as he moves to wrap his fist around Blaine's cock. Blaine's hips jerk forward and his whines increase in key and timbre and volume as Kurt strokes, soft at the base and squeezing at the tip, pad of his thumb catching on the slit and spreading the pre-come down, along his spit-and-sweat sticky palm and fingers.

Kurt leans forward, chest pressed to Blaine's back and the tip of his cock rubbing the underside of Blaine's briefly, sending him into a small spasm of pleasure. Kurt trains his eyes on the side profile of Blaine's face, sees that it's screwed up in pleasure; eyes squeezed shut hard enough to span little crow's feet from the corners. His tightly-closed mouth sealed so that words won't spill forth and flood everything.

A soft press of lips to Blaine's hard-muscled back, fluttering like butterfly kisses as Kurt mouths a line from one shoulder to the next, hand still stroking, Blaine's hips still moving. "Good boy, good boy," Kurt repeats. "I'm gonna need you to flip over for me, okay? That's it, honey. Go on, baby boy, it's okay."

Blaine situates himself on his back with a satisfied exhalation, staring mutely up at Kurt as he straddles his chest with toned dancer's thighs, pale, milky shin almost snow white against Blaine's own dark hue. In comparison Kurt's cock is flushed a deep red, shiny at the tip and so very still untouched.

Another unconscious lick of the lips as Blaine openly stares, wants to feel the heavy, salty weight on his tongue, pulling his mouth wide. His hands are obediently down at his sides, his head resting on the pillows unless Kurt says otherwise. The self-control is _killing_ him.

Sweat collects around the collar, sliding beneath the leather and staying, wet, against his neck. It's a little uncomfortable but also somehow oddly arousing. Kurt leans forward and traces a finger around the edge, nail dragging over the soft leather until the tip of his index finger lifts up the dog tag.

It's just blank silver. Blaine hadn't gotten it monogrammed because there's always too much paperwork to be filled out with those and it had the huge potential to be extremely embarrassing. Kurt stares at it for a few more seconds, eyes slowly darkening, before letting it fall back against Blaine's throat with a cooling slap.

Kurt doesn't kiss him on the mouth, and he won't, Blaine realizes sadly as Kurt's teeth and tongue make their way from his neck up to his jaw. But that's totally okay, he thinks, because just Kurt's weight on him is good enough.

Eventually Kurt pulls away and grasps Blaine's face, maintaining their eye contact. He studies him for a few seconds; blown hazel eyes, lips bitten red and swollen, a sense of urgency barely hidden in the lines of his face and the tension in his body.

Kurt's breath is hot and dampening against the shell of Blaine's ear as he fingers the collar again, whispers, "Would you like a pearl necklace to go with that collar, Blaine? Hm? Would you like that? I know how excited you are about having new things."

_Oh _fuck. _Yes!_ Blaine wants to yell as his eyes widen. _Anything to please you, Kurt. I'll do anything. I'll _let_ you do anything._

He whines, whimpers, clutches at Kurt's hips, his thighs, as if to say _yes_. His tongue pokes out, pink, from his red lips, wetting them in a clear, glossy coat of saliva. Kurt can tell he wants to speak. He _always_ wants to speak, that's the whole point of Kurt pushing his insecurities aside and baring himself like that, living through a mutual fantasy of the dogs that they'd never gotten as children, Blaine because he'd wanted a poodle or a teacup Chihuahua and his dad didn't deem it boyish enough for his son to have and Kurt because his father was allergic to anything that stood on four legs and had fur. And frankly, Chinese crested dogs freaked Kurt out a little.

Kurt may seem like a prudish virgin, but he _has_ used Google and Urban Dictionary before because if there's one thing he hates it's being in the dark. He's quite aware of what he's asking Blaine and he's fully conscious of how much he wants it.

Kurt lets out a little hiss as he wraps his hand around his cock, eyes half-lidded as he strokes and murmurs, "You're so amazing, Blaine, laying there like a good boy and doing what I tell you to." He twists his wrist and moans, bringing his free hand up to cup his balls. Blaine whimpers and Kurt can feel the comforter shift slightly around his legs as Blaine fists it tighter.

"Look at that, look at your self-control," Kurt says, throat clenching around his words as heat begins to ebb low in his stomach like the dying tide, licking its way through him as he quickens the pace of his hand. "Not touching yourself, not touching me. _Obeying_."

Blaine keens high in the back of his throat, words wanting to come out so badly. Kurt watches him, watches the tendons in his neck stand out, the collar bob more forcibly as Blaine swallows his words and watches with rapt attention as Kurt's flush get darker as he gets closer to the edge.

A few more pulls, a few more choked-off gasps and Kurt is coming, most of it hitting Blaine in the upper chest or the hollow of his throat, some striping up to arc around his collar and up his neck. Blaine lets out an involuntary gasp and his eyes slide shut as the come slides down toward his shoulders.

Kurt scoots back, still dizzy from his orgasm, and takes Blaine's cock in hand, stroking, and with a few encouraging words Blaine is arching up off the bed, mouth open and eyes still shut as he moans his release, adding to the mess on his chest.

They catch their breath and then Kurt is up, heading to his joined bathroom to dampen a washcloth to clean them up with. Blaine's body is thrumming with the lazy after-effects and he hums contentedly as the warm washcloth wipes away the come on his chest, toes curling in the bunched-up comforter.

"You can speak now," Kurt says once the last droplet is gone, pressing a kiss to Blaine's cheek before moving to put the cloth back in the sink and crawl onto the bed, pressing himself against Blaine's side like a cat.

"Thanks," Blaine says, voice slightly hoarse from lack of use. He grins lazily and presses a kiss to the top of Kurt's hair. "I mean it. I love you."

"I love you, too," Kurt says, resting his chin on Blaine's shoulder.

The serenity of the house, with the only noise around being the steady hum of the air conditioning and the gentle, continuous _whoosh_ of the ceiling fan as it makes trip after trip after trip, lulls them both into a state of sleep-limbo—though not the _Inception_ kind, because while that movie was awesome Kurt didn't have too much appreciation for it besides the bromance between Arthur and Eames.

Kurt's half-awake, mind being shepherded to unconsciousness like a flock of sheep, when he feels the low rumble of Blaine's voice vibrate through his cheek before what Blaine's said catches up to him.

"…How'd you know about pearl necklaces anyway?"

Kurt laughs sleepily and nuzzles further into the heat of Blaine's body. "I have my ways."

"Are these ways going to pop up more?" Blaine sounds positively hopeful.

"If you shut _up_ and let me sleep, yes."

"G'night," Blaine says. Kurt can hear the smile in his voice.


End file.
